


More Than One Way Home

by fancastik



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Big Brother Phillip is my weakness and its all I want in the world, F/M, Found Family, Listen I just like some good family shit, mainly it's just the protesters being jerks, minor racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancastik/pseuds/fancastik
Summary: Phillip shouldn't feel the way he does. He has a new family, a better life, but there's a part of him that can't help but yearn for things in the past. When the letter comes, it feels like his perfectly crafted world is shattering. He's not strong enough to pick up the pieces, not alone anyway.





	1. Feels Like Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> I have plans to go see The Greatest Showman two more times this week because I have no self control and hate saving money apparently. Anyway, have this story about Phillip finding a new family because i'm a sappy shit.

       P.T finds him at around 3 am, outside the bar they first met at, and half hidden in the shadows of the alley. He’s sitting, back leaning against the rough brick and feet spread out before him. It’s the glint of the gold on his ringmaster suit that catches Phineas’ eye.

 “You missed the show,” he calls as he approaches the kid, not missing the flask gripped tightly in his hand, so hard his knuckles have gone white. Phillip doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even seem to realize he’s there, even as Phineas kneels before him. His eyes are glazed over, unseeing; the bright baby blues replaced by something cold and dead.

     “Hey, kid…” still nothing, not even a flicker of recognition. There’s worry clawing its way up the older man’s throat, causing a lump to form and taking his own breath from him, “Phillip come on, look at me.”

     He smells strongly of booze, it could be the alley, but in the kid’s state Phineas doubts it.

     “Christ, kid, how much have you had.”

     It’s not until he goes to remove the flask from the boy’s hand that he gets a response. It’s subtle, just a small flinch as their hands touch briefly, but it’s enough to reassure Phineas, even a small amount. There’s a moment of time, nothing but silence enveloping them, and then it’s broken by a small whimper. It sounds like a wounded dog, an animal in the dark, and it takes a moment for him to realize it’s Phillip. He finally looks up to meet Phineas’ gaze, and the man can see the tears that have formed in his eyes and threaten to spill over.

     “He’s dead,” his voice is hoarse, and barely comes out as anything more than a whisper.

     “Who?”

     “…My dad.”

     A cold winter morning, dirt under his fingernails, a worn top hat clutched tightly in his small hands. This is what flashes through Phineas’ mind. The burn of alcohol, the smell of booze and piss and the dark of an alley, this is what Phillip will remember, if he even remembers anything at all. No, Phineas thinks, that’s not all, because he is not alone; not like he was, and he won’t have to be. He moves so he can sit beside the kid, his back protests the hard brick, but he ignores it.

     “I’m sorry, how’d it happen?”

     “Heart attack, while he was sleeping,” there’s a pause where Phillip sniffs and wipes at his nose before growling, “old fuck,” in this bitter tone.

     Phineas hasn’t forgotten how the Carlyle’s had disowned the boy, how by all technicalities he was now nameless and had been fatherless for a while. But, before there had been Phillip the Ringmaster, there had been Phillip Carlyle, the playwright and aristocrat. There had been a boy with a father and mother who doted on him and didn’t sneer at the mention of him. Phineas feels for the boy, can understand his pain and the torment that consumes him. He’s torn in half, a broken soul trying to mend itself.

     “It happened a month ago, and my mother has now ‘found it fit to inform me of his passing’, she sent a fucking letter,” from the pocket of his coat he produces a crumpled piece of stationary and thrusts it out to Phineas. The older man accepts it, and looks over the elegant handwriting before folding the paper back up in a careful manner and sliding it into his own pocket. There’s a bitterness in his mouth, something foul that spreads throughout the rest of him, for once he’s glad to have not grown up with riches and all the regality that comes with money.

     “I’m so sorry, son,” he doesn’t really think about the pet name, he’s addressed the boy by it many times in the past, but once the word has left his mouth he realizes the weight that it now carries. Phillip doesn’t miss it either, his shoulders tensing before a sob escapes him. He’s too drunk to really think about his actions and turns to bury his face in Phineas’ neck, his trembling breath hot on the mans skin.

     Phineas doesn’t pull away, and he’s not sure why. The last time they were this close was when he was carrying the boy out of the fire, and it was something that they never really talked about again. But, it would be a lie if he said that he didn’t care for the boy. Because, really, he was almost like a son to him. He could still feel the pride that had swelled in his chest when he’d watched him run into the ring after Phineas had past the duties of ringmaster over to him. He could so vividly see Phillip playing with Caroline and Helen, hoisting the giggling girls onto his shoulders and running around the yard with wild abandon. He could hear Charity as she doted upon him, adjusting his bow tie with nimble fingers and commenting on how handsome he looked in the red coat. He could smell the smoke, the fire and the burning flesh as he carried the unconscious boy in his arms, fear clenched around his heart like a vice. Phillip had always been there in a way, once as a friend, but now as family.

     Tears were beginning to soak the collar of his shirt and Phillip couldn’t seem to control his hiccuping breaths. His hands had found their way to Phineas’ shirt and he now clutched the fabric tightly in his trembling fists. They were half hidden in darkness, the early hour keeping people off the streets, so Phineas didn’t try to calm him. He let the boy break, let him release the emotion he’d probably pent up since he got the letter, signed Miss Carlyle instead of mother like it should have said.

     “I hate them, I hate them so damn much,” the words lacked the anger they should have had, and just came out sounding pitiful.

     “No, you don’t,” Phineas replied, because it was the truth. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself, to hide his pain, they would always be his family. Once upon a time, they had been good parents, Phillip had told him as much. They had adored him, thought his plays were the greatest piece of literature since Shakespeare, and they had let him know as much. Phillip would always wish for their approval deep down, because it was all he had known before he found the courage to turn his back on their ideologies. He’d found Anne, and it should have been enough, but there would always be that small part of him that was waiting for the smallest bit of recognition. Now, his father would never be able to give him that, and Phillip knew the man had died hating him.

     “I didn’t even get to go to the funeral, I thought-,” another sob breaks off his words and it takes him a moment to recover, “I thought they would understand eventually, or even just try to, for me.”

     “I know, I know you were,” he takes a breath to prepare himself, “but you know what Phillip, I’m proud of you.”

     “Please-.”

     “No, I really am. You’re something the world just can’t understand yet, son. You look past appearance, you just see people. You took my show, and you turned it into something I could have never dreamed of. It doesn’t matter what your father thought of you, I know you think differently, but family is more than blood, kid. You didn’t let them tie you down, you left and created something even more beautiful and unique.”

      “I just wanted him to understand, I wanted him to see what I saw.”

     “He was blind. You’re special Phillip, I’ve never met anyone else like you, and you should be proud of that.”

     The kids shaking violently, his breath still uneven, emotion consuming every part of him. Phineas wants to wrap him in his arms, and protect him from everything that’s ever tried to hurt him. He settles for wrapping an arm around his trembling shoulders. Phillip has to move to adjust to the new position, and when he does the light from the streetlamps falls across his forehead. Phineas can just make out the scar that runs along his left temple, an angry jagged line, a permanent reminder of the fire. He’d told Phineas about that night, how the smoke had filled his lungs and blurred his vision, slowed his reflexes so he couldn’t jump out of the way of the beam that had come right at him. That’s how Phineas had found him, spread out on the dirt floor, orange flames just beginning to lick at him and a charred wooden beam lying at his side. He was small for his age, but Phineas had never imagined he’d be as light as he was, his limp body feeling no bigger than Helen.

     Without thinking, he finds his free hand coming up to brush lightly against the scar, fingers dancing over the uneven skin. Phillip’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t protest. Slowly, his hiccuped sobs slow.

     “Is Anne worried?” he asks, his voice coming out small and muffled.

     “Everyone is, they’re all out looking for you.”

     “I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just needed to forget for a while.”

     “Don’t worry about it, they’ll understand. No ones mad at you, just a little scared,” he doesn’t mention that half the circus is convinced they’ve been abandoned. That Charles had had been ready to hunt Phillip down just to tell him to shove off. It’s a good thing he’d found him first, Phillip probably couldn’t handle more people being disappointed at him. In fact, he probably shouldn’t go back just yet, they’d attack him the minute he entered the tent. They wouldn’t understand. “Why don’t you come back to my place kid, we’ll set you up in the guest room. I’ll go back to the circus, tell them you're sick or something.”

     Phillip sniffs, and buries deeper into Phineas’ side. He must be exhausted, the alcohol and emotional turmoil taking a lot out of him. “I should go back, I don’t want to worry them anymore.”

     “Trust me kid, with the state you’re in, you’re not going to be calming anyone,” there’s a stain on his ringmaster coat, something that looks suspiciously like vomit, and the smell of alcohol coming off the boy is strong enough to cause his eyes to water. “How much did you drink, anyway?”

     There’s a harsh laugh that escapes him, “I don’t know, I stopped counting. Bartender cut me off though, I remember that much.” It took a lot for Stan to stop pouring shots, he usually didn’t care what you did to your liver as long as you continued paying him.

     “Jesus, you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover.”

      They both laugh at that, and in the silence of the night, it echoes around them. Phillip seems to have calmed down though, his body no longer shaking, and his breathing returned to some semblance of normal. Phineas had never thought of himself as a calming presence, his tendency to fidget wasn’t his best attribute, but Phillip didn’t seem to mind.

     With a groan he pulls himself away from the boy, and manages to get to his feet, knees cracking and bones protesting the movement. He’s never considered himself to be old, but fifty was looming on the horizon. Phillip has a harder time standing, having to use the wall to steady himself. He sways dangerously, and when he begins to fall forward, Phineas catches him with ease. He’s still so light, how much were twenty-four-year-olds supposed to weigh?

     “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

     Phillip nods, and they’re off, Phineas with an arm wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist to keep him upright.


	2. Your Hand in Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His breath is warm on her neck when he says, “you’re my home,” and there’s just enough of a slur to his speech that she knows he won’t remember his words in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear these chapters will get longer, i'm just swamped with schoolwork right now. Financial Accounting is not being very nice to me currently, and I got a lot to get done. Thank you so much for such positive feedback on the first chapter, you guys are the best, and I hope this second bit doesn't let any of you down.  
> Shout out to Melissa for going to rewatch the movie with me, and crying at all the right times, your reactions were gold.  
> *Minor warning for some racism, it's just the typical stuff for this era, and people being jerks*

They’re not going to make it back to his house, that’s clear from almost the moment he has to half carry the boy across the street. He considers Phillip’s apartment, a small thing that’s just on the other side of town, but even that seems like miles away. The only option, as much as he hates it, is the circus, it’s closer than anything else. The minute anyone sees the kid like this, they’re going to be demanding answers. He can see the disappointment on their faces now, especially Anne’s, because he had been there when Phillip had promised her he would work on the drinking.

Overtime, it had become a clutch for the kid. There wasn’t much emotion you could show in the high society, especially if you were a man. The problem was, Phillip was emotional, he couldn’t help but wear his feelings on his sleeve and it showed in almost every action he made. His parents had stuffed him into a suit from a young age, told him to shove everything he was feeling down, and he had learned to do that with the burn of alcohol. Feelings were something to be ashamed of, something feminine, and it wasn’t long before some critics caught onto his behavior and were quick to brand him for it. 

‘Queer tendencies’, Phineas had once read in a newspaper, he can’t imagine that had gone over well with the Carlyle’s. After that, rumors spread of his scandalous romps around town. The late-night visits to girls who’d giggle to their friends, like schoolchildren, in the morning. 

‘A bit of a scandal, a handsome one though,’ They’d whisper, and so he came to be named as the most eligible bachelor in town, every high society girl wanting to throw themselves at him. 

He’d been miserable in that life, having to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Having to pretend their opinions and harsh words didn’t make his skin crawl. Phillip was never like them, something that was apparent from the moment Phineas first met him. No matter how much he tried to be, he was never going to fit into that world, because it wasn’t where he belonged. 

Though, he didn’t belong on the streets this early in the morning either. Phineas’ arm around his waist is all that’s keeping the boy upright, and he’s not really walking, so much as being dragged along. There’s a moment where Phineas considers carrying him, but that would be far more humiliating than anything else. 

In the street lights he can get a better look at the kid, the stain on his coat that’s most definitely vomit and the dried blood on his lip, that trails in a thin line down his chin. Someone must have hit him, probably a drunk who didn’t like the idea of he and Anne together. He’s wondering if there’s any other injuries he should be looking for when the kid lurches forward suddenly. He’s on his knees before Phineas can grab him. 

“’m gonna be sick,” he groans, before retching onto the cobblestone. It’s not a pleasant sight, and the acrid smell isn’t much better. Phineas really wishes he knew how much the kid had drank, because, for a practiced alcoholic, he wasn’t handling himself well tonight. When he looks back up at Phineas, a strand of hair has fallen over his face, curling just above the bridge of his nose. 

“Sorry,” he slurs, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks miserable, and pitifully small in the glow of the street lamps. Phineas just helps him back to his feet, careful to avoid stepping into the puddle of sick. The circus is only a few streets down, right by the dock, so they should run into the search party any moment now. Holding Phillip up with one arm, he uses the other to try to make him look somewhat presentable; pushing the strand of hair back up into it’s usually well-maintained comb, and straightening the shoulders of his ringmaster coat, the stains will have to be dealt with another time. The blood on his face is another issue, and without a rag or something to wipe it away, there’s nothing to be done about that problem either. He’s as put together as he can be, given the circumstances, and it will just have to be enough. 

They must look something terrible, hobbling onto the fairgrounds. The moment they pass under the archway there’s people coming from all directions. Lettie reaches them first, helping take some of Phillips weight by slinging one of his arms over her shoulders. By this point he’s barely conscious, head lolling onto Phineas’ shoulder ever so often before he jerks himself back upright. 

“He smells awful,” Lettie says with a grimace. She doesn’t look angry at him though, just let down. There’s a bit of relief to her features too and at first Phineas doesn’t really understand why, until they run into W.B.

“We thought he was dead,” his tone is harsh and his eyes disapproving, “drunken bastard.” 

Dead? It takes him a moment. Then he remembers the protesters that had started to gather at the gates the other night, they’d spewed the same hateful speech, until Phillip came to address them. He was trying to handle the situation calmly, just asking them to leave in a level tone, until one of the guys had taken a swing at him. He’d sidestepped the punch easily enough, and the next few that came at him too, and he’d never raised his own fist, until the comments about Anne had started. 

‘It’s shameful, you and that colored girl, a disgrace.’

‘She’s nothing more than a desperate whore.’

That had struck something in him, and Phineas had just barely managed to pull him away before he lashed out at them. His hands were balled into fists at his side as he spat every vulgarity he could back at the mob. They’d just yelled right back at him and then one voice had raised over the rest, “you’re dead Carlyle, as soon as we catch you, you’re a dead man.” 

At the time, Phineas hadn’t really thought about it, it was the same threat they’d made hundreds of times before, but he could see how his disappearance would cause unease. Anne must be worrying herself sick. 

“Where’s your sister?” He asks W.D., who seems intent on not giving him the answer. 

“You’d think he’d be decent enough to at least wait until after the show, or maybe leave a note.” 

“Where’s Anne?” 

“He’s got everyone wandering around town you know, they’re looking for a body.” 

“W.D.” 

He scowls, crossing his arms over his chest and finally jerks his head toward a small cluster of tents just right of the big top, “his office.” He makes a point of glaring at Phillip as he speaks, but the boy’s head is on Lettie’s shoulder now and he shows no signs of waking up soon. Whatever words he wants to share with the boy will have to wait until tomorrow. 

Lettie helps him drag the boy the rest of the way, and then leaves them at the entrance to the tent.

Phineas thanks her, to which she replies, “make sure he takes a bath.” 

The tent is smaller than the others, and made of the same off-white canvas as everyone else’s. Inside, there’s a modest desk and chair, the wood chipped in places. There’s a cabinet beside the desk, holding bills, invoices and various other business forms. The few knickknacks he has lying around are trinkets from a past life, and the stuffed elephant that sits on the corner of his desk. Helen had given it to him in the hospital, when his raw throat and lungs had begun to heal and didn’t send him into a coughing fit with every inhale. Charity hadn’t wanted the girls to see him until his final days in the hospital, knowing they would want to hug him or climb onto his bed, too young to understand that underneath the sterile clothes they’d put him in was a burn that stretched from his waist to his arm, on his left side, and any movement or contact would send waves of pain running through him. The girl had approached him teary eyed and sniffling, the animal clutched tightly in her hands until she held it out to him. 

He’d accepted it with a smile and managed to lean down just enough to embrace her, “thanks mouse.” The nickname came from her small size, and only he was allowed to call her by it. 

Now, the elephant was here, always keeping an eye on him. It was a child’s dream, that a stuffed toy could keep someone safe, and of course it wasn’t very effective. 

Anne stands on the opposite side of the tent, by a small cot that’s usually occupied when Phillip has mounds of paperwork and ends up crashing here. Her hair falls in a wild mess around her shoulders, and though she’s taken off her wig, she’s still dressed in her purple leotard. Glitter and make-up still brushed across her face. She’d been pacing, but pauses as soon as they enter.

“He’s okay,” she breathes, across the room in a flash and taking Phillip’s face in her hands. It doesn’t take her long to smell the booze on him, and then she’s turning to face Phineas, “where was he?” 

“An alley beside the bar-.” 

“Of course,” she pulls away from him then, hands falling rigidly by her side, “I should have known.”

“Anne-.” 

“No, it’s just like him to make empty promises. He’s got a real problem you know. Every time I think he might have stopped I find him with that damned flask. I’d never thought he’d miss a show for it though.” 

Holding up Phillip and himself is becoming quite tiresome, so he moves to lay the boy down on the cot before speaking, “it’s not like that.” 

She scoffs, “yeah? Then explain it to me.” 

The letter’s still in his pocket, folded far more neatly than when Phillip had first thrust it at him. He considers whether to give it to her or not, knowing Phillip would be angry at him if he did. But Anne deserves to know, and it’s not like he wouldn’t tell her eventually. So, he pulls the worn parchment from his pocket and holds it out to her. She doesn’t accept it at first, glancing between him and it with a cautious gaze, like it’s a something poisonous. 

Miss. Carlyle’s handwriting is hardly visible now, from how violently Phillip had crumpled the paper, and from the tear drops had made the ink bleed. It takes Anne a while to fully decipher what she’s holding, but when she does she raises a hand to her mouth and looks back at him with wide eyes. 

“A month?” 

He nods, remembering how Phillip’s voice had trembled when he’d told him, how he’d looked completely crushed, and lost. A month ago, they were preparing for their grand reopening. Everyone had been practicing their acts and Phillip had begged Anne to teach him some basic acrobatics, just enough that he might be able to join her in the air for a brief part of the show. He’d been so happy, a wide smile and eyes that gleamed with so much life it was intoxicating. Phineas remembers hearing him laugh, so carefree and loud, he had been free. It didn’t seem fair that the letter should come now, when he was finally becoming himself, truly beginning to let down the walls he had spent years building.

“Why? I don’t understand, why even bother to tell him now?” Anne seems just as upset as he is, and they both look down at the sleeping boy for a moment. The smile isn’t there anymore, just his brows furrowed tightly and a grimace on his lips. 

“To hurt him? People like the Carlyle’s, they’re above fighting, but not above getting the last word.” His mind flashes to Charity’s father, the smile that masqueraded as politeness, but was really something far sinister. ‘she’ll be back’, he’d sneered. He’d never raised his voice, or his fist, when you had money you handled your problems with elegance. 

“That’s awful.” 

He doesn’t argue. Phillip shifts in his sleep as Anne sits beside him, reaching out to card a hand through his sweat soaked hair. Phineas watches them for a moment, how her hand moves to trace along the line of blood on his chin, the question that begins to rise on her lips. 

“A fight probably, he was like that when I found him.”

She still holds the letter, balling it back up with her free hand, before dropping it onto the ground, like it’s nothing more than a piece of trash. That’s what he wishes Phillip would have done the moment he got the thing, what he should have done. Her fingers go to the scar on his forehead, tracing over the wound, before she leans down to press a quick kiss there. Watching them is so endearingly familiar, she reminds him of Charity, and if Phillip turns out anything like him he feels sorry for the girl. 

“He has a family here, he knows that, right?” her eyes come back up to his, “we would never hurt him like they do.” 

“He knows, trust me Anne, he’s just a little lost is all. He’s got a lot going through his head, but eventually he’ll find his way home.” 

He leaves them like that, washed in the warm glow from the lantern that sits on Phillip’s desk, Anne’s hand finding the boys and entwining their fingers. She can hear her whispering something, words not meant for him, he leaves them in their world with the tent flapping closed behind him. 

*****  
“You’re more than this,” Anne whispers, “just don’t wander too far, okay?” 

He doesn’t show any sign that he’s heard her, other than the small twitch of his hand around hers. Barnum is gone, and as the silence envelops her, she begins to realize just how tired she is. When she hadn’t been able to find Phillip before the show, her heart had begun to pound in her chest, loud enough that she thought for sure everyone could hear it. She’d checked every one of his usual hiding spots, under the bleachers, the platform she jumped from each night, Lettie’s room, where he’d go to sneak a couple of sips from his flask, knowing the woman wouldn’t say anything. She’d even gone to the tree just outside the fairgrounds, where he’d sometimes climb to the highest branch with one of his notebooks, his mind producing ideas and plans faster than his pen could write. He’d seemed to have adopted her attraction to heights, but when even the towering maple had proved empty, she had begun to panic. He’d never vanished before a show, it was so unlike him and she thought of a thousand possible reasons, all of which made her feel sick. It wasn’t until Barnum had come, dragging Phillip along with him, that her heart finally began to slow. Now, it was back at it’s normal pace, and the adrenaline that had kept her going was fading. 

She hadn’t even changed out of her costume yet, but her body felt so heavy, all she wanted to do was close her eyes and forget this night. She would yell at Phillip in the morning, but for now, she was just glad to have him back. 

The cot isn’t meant for the both of them, but she makes it work. Curled up against him, her back pressed to his chest, she’s thankful for the natural heat that he provides because there’s not a blanket in sight. He does smell though, like a brewery, something she is very much not thankful for, but will endure for the time being. He’s taking a bath in the morning, immediately, and then maybe five more after that. 

It’s just as she begins to doze off that she feels it, his hand coming to wrap around her waist. His hand finds hers, their fingers just barely linked together. His breath is warm on her neck when he says, “you’re my home,” and there’s just enough of a slur to his speech that she knows he won’t remember his words in the morning. But she will, and she’ll hold onto those words like a promise. 

“And you’re mine.”

Sleep comes easily after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr, at: phillipxcarlyle.


End file.
